


Falling up

by Taera



Category: Vampyr (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dragon Jonathan, Gen, He's suffering, Heavy Angst, I'm Sorry, Some Spoilers, an attempt at character study through blood addiction, people die, rating just to be sure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-09 21:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18646540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taera/pseuds/Taera
Summary: And so he killed, screaming in agony along with his victims, weeping soundlessly, feeling the mad urge to live and at the same time: a similarly insane desire to die, end this nightmare.





	Falling up

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Падение ввысь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15230805) by [Tatrien (Taera)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taera/pseuds/Tatrien). 



> I'll just sit here for a moment, yes. It was a hard text to write, although the translation went a little better in terms of my emotional involvement (or, rather, lack thereof).
> 
> Beta-read only by me, if you see any mistakes, feel free to tell me.  
> Enjoy this hellride :3

He remembered every single second from the first shuddering inhale he took amidst the rotting corpses, his memory sharp and mind latching hungrily onto the smallest of details. Oh, how desperately he wanted to _wake up_ while crawling towards the bright red beacon. When he realized he'd killed his own sister his heart shattered into sharp pieces, millions of poisonous splinters of guilt and despair. During those mad minutes he didn't yet understand what was going on, didn't understand how it could have possibly happened and why strange men had suddenly opened a goddamn _hunt_ on him.

He wanted to cry, but the tears never came. He was cold. Several times he really tried to stop his legs and wait for the hunters, let them kill him (it was _impossible_ to endure this pain, eating him whole) but the body refused to cooperate. It wanted to live. And so he killed, screaming in agony along with his victims, weeping soundlessly, feeling the mad urge to live and at the same time: a similarly insane desire to die, end this nightmare.

He couldn't make himself go out into the sunlight. A shot through the heart didn't keep him dead.

His stomach twisted with terrible hunger, and he could feel the long fangs with his tongue. Madness. Moreover, the hunters wouldn't leave him in peace, attacking and attacking, forcing him to defend himself. In the end, he couldn't stop himself from drinking the last living hunter dry, holding him close, like a lover. Or, rather, like a _food_.

The pleasure simmered only for several seconds while a hot wave of red flowed down his throat; it melted into horror and guilt the moment he realized what he was doing. Realized too late to help his victim in any way.

With the war behind him, he was already doubting his ability to return to a peaceful life, but now… now he felt as if he was made out of glass, with cracks already running all over him. The streets of London weighted down on him, the screams and the howls worming under his skin, freezing his fingers. It was as if he went insane and fell into a wholly new and unknown world, the surface of it closing far above his head.

Well. Why "as if"?

In an attempt to keep his head above the waters of madness, he concentrated everything he had on finding the killer that left the bright bloody trail from under the bridge (the smell of it making his head spin, the urge to fall down on his knees and _lick_ the dirty cobblestones _clean_ blinding him for several infinite seconds; instead, he gulped down the dry lump of terror in his throat and moved on).

It was difficult, but he ignored the siren song of beating _living_ hearts. He resisted the call even when he found himself in a warehouse, the walls and floor _drenched_ in red and the pieces of human bodies scattered all over the place, breathing in the stench of sour liquids, rotting meat, and bittersweet blood.

He was desperately clinging to logic, trying to explain everything from the scientific point of view, so familiar and dear to him.

Without any doubt, it was the heavens that sent Doctor Swansea to him.

Seeing a man getting hurt right in front of him not far from the Pembroke hospital, Jonathan's first impulse was to call for a nurse and help the poor man get to a safe place. He opened his mouth to do just that when a gust of air rushed past him, bringing with it the scent of blood. _Sweet, tantalizing_ . The world turned red, a wet drum thumping laboredly in his ears. Jonathan watched from the back of his mind his treacherous body moving on its own accord, watched himself walking confidently towards Clay Cox, talking to him, taking him somewhere quiet. The man had time only for one full-body jerk when fangs plunged into his throat, transforming a shout into a garbled burbling. And again: a wave of total bliss, a torrent of pure _strength_ flowing into him, filling his every pore, a soft voice proud in his head, praising him, commenting that a hunter cannot allow himself going hungry.

For fifteen minutes Jonathan had been sitting near the corpse, staring blankly at his red-stained hands. They did not tremble. He thought he saw fissures crawling along his forearms.

He vowed never to drink human blood, ever. He vowed to eat only rats and Skals. He gathered enough courage to go into the hospital only when the sky started to grey, spending the night on getting acquainted with Dr Tippets, nurse Brannagan, and those patients forced to huddle in the tents under the rainy sky. The smell of blood was overwhelming, almost maddening, but, somehow, Jonathan managed to reach his office without dragging any of the patients or nurses off to a dark corner. Thoughts of the sample he took earlier helped him, seducing his mind of a scientist and allowing to distance himself from the more basic urges.

He could only hope he would dive into researching the secret behind this unexpectedly aggressive flu strain deep enough to leave him with no time whatsoever for mulling other things in his head. In some way, that was exactly what had happened; he learned to satisfy himself with Skal blood, whom for a short period of time at the beginning he'd considered ill people, soon realizing these creatures were nothing more than an empty shell with a tangle of animal instincts inside. Their blood had a bitter aftertaste, sometimes it even made him nauseous; Jonathan refused to vomit.

His investigation took him all over the city, and the cracks were slowly crawling along. He made a rule to spend as much time as he could afford at Pembroke, helping the doctors and alleviating sufferings of the patients, even if only a little. He also started giving away medicine to those he met on the streets if he saw they needed it. And when the thirst became especially unbearable, he remembered a soft smile, warm eyes and red hair; it seemed that the mere presence of Lady Ashbury in his life inspired him to fight his monstrous instincts and strive to be better.

Hearing Skals howling and a panicking male screaming in the building not far into Whitechapel, Jonathan rushed to the rescue without thinking twice. And then he was stupid enough to speak to the man.

With a shrill pang something inside him snapped, and the world turned red once more; Jonathan didn't even have an opportunity to fight the urge, he trapped the flailing mortal in an embrace so fast, biting and greedily gulping his hot blood. Tears still didn't want to come and wash away his grief, so instead of the dry cries he let out a piercing _inhuman_ howl.

Cadogan Bates, his blood and his last thoughts, would remain with Jonathan forever, the exact same way as Clay Cox did. Through the cracks in the glass came a breeze, cold as a grave. Jonathan was painfully, desperately aware of the fact that it became easier and easier for him to kill. He didn't even grieve Bates' death properly, such despicable human being he was.

Human. A word no-one will ever use towards Jonathan.

He had been clinging to the good lady Ashbury, he had been clinging to his Hippocratic oath, he had been clinging to the shards of humanity that still remained in his soul, drained by the guilt, but he could only scream helplessly and soundlessly during those rare moments he had time to think about his situation on the whole and his actions in particular. He was drowning in the unsteady sands of the crimson hunger. There came a moment when he could no longer sate himself with the blood he got during the fights with Skals and hunters. There came a moment when he started looking closer at the civilians. His first victims were those he brought the medicine to; they, fooled by his concerned questions and impeccable politeness, invited him into their homes and, later, into their hearts. The innocent blood was many times more intoxicating than any other drug. The dying thoughts of the murdered tickled his mind, settling down like butterflies on the shelves.

At what moment exactly the investigation into influenza became only an excuse for the hunt, he couldn't tell for sure. It's just that the bitterness went away from his tongue when he was seeing Elizabeth or Edgar, and other workers and patients in the hospital simply turned into a buffet. Jonathan hadn't touched them yet: with twisted curiosity he watched how their attitude towards him gradually changed, and how easily he calmed their troubles with a few phrases, said in a caringly professional voice.

He didn't feel such sentimentality towards the tenants of the docks. Sean Hampton's blood was as bitter as of any Skal. He washed down the unpleasant aftertaste with Paxton sisters, feeling in turns waves of pleasure and guilt. Something tore and ached with infinite hunger and desperate terror in his chest, familiar as the back of his hand by now.

McCullum was a gulp of fresh air. He didn't buy into his lies, he saw right through him; and the things he saw made him sick with revulsion and _wrath_ . Under the hunter's gaze Jonathan felt not like a shattered man of glass, but like a black demon, a spawn of the abyss. Jonathan felt _alive_.

For a second, his guts twisted with hunger and a fierce yearning; for a second, he truly wanted to provoke the hunter, make him unsheathe his weapon and end all of this already, but Edgar, gracious as a bull, destroyed their fleeting idyll. Jonathan barely managed to smother the impulse to throw a tantrum (and, perhaps, sink his fangs into one swarthy neck).

After Mary he… he died for the second time. Nothing remained in him except pain and sucking emptiness. The night embraced him with its cold arms, but he was shivering not because of that. He was completely alone now; there was no other human being left whom he'd loved. No-one. The first one he drank on that night was Camellia: the plant pot shattered loudly on the cobblestones, echoing along with her last thought. A _thief_. Next, he saw Kristina Popa. Then: fra Whitaker. Clayton Darby. Father and son Palmers. Jonathan noticed the sunrise only because his skin was smoldering.

He almost talked himself into remaining outside; his instincts demanded survival and his mind echoed, using the unfinished investigation as a main argument. After Mary he lost the pleasure of the blood. There were too little of it to fill the hole in his soul, but still he tried and tried and _tried_ to get what he wanted. By the time Ascalon showed an interest in him, Jonathan's eyes had lost any resemblance of humanity, and he didn't doubt even for a second the other Ekons knew perfectly well the reason for that. Elizabeth's gaze cut him like an icy knife, grief and hope in her eye tangled so closely together that Jonathan felt sincere pain and longing every time he was in her presence. However, the moment they parted ways he, as always, went numb, drowning in despair and understanding there was no turning back for him. He'd burned all of the bridges.

Ascalon was useful right until their goals aligned. Jonathan had no intention of turning Dawson; the old man was so revolting he didn't kill him either, instead hypnotizing him into giving away all of his money to charity. Jonathan was fighting back a laugh from the moment he told Lord Redgrave what had happened and got in return offended curses and an expulsion from the club. Well, wasn't their alliance a short one. He felt such joy he didn't even drink Louise Teasdale dry in the spot when he stumbled upon her a block away from Dawson's mansion; no, first, he sated hers (and, frankly, his own) curiosity, only after the act revealing his nature and watching with malicious glee how surprise and shock on her face morphed into anger, fear, and bitterness. At least, she experienced her share of pleasure before dying. Jonathan considered himself an attentive lover after all, and with a good reason.

All the way home, Jonathan rolled her last thought on his tongue, tasting bitter chocolate. Her father was oh so right: everyone always wanted something from the others.

Avery accepted his death with humility. The Reid's mansion became as dead as Jonathan himself. A beautiful shell, inside of which lurked an abyss of unquenchable despair.

Playing the part of a caring doctor now was veritably impossible, yet Jonathan stubbornly held onto this last thread. Sooner or later he would let it go, just not tonight. Returning to Pembroke and seeing the traces of an attack, he knew he was going right into the trap. What he didn't expect, were these ultraviolet lights; Jonathan welcomed the pain. Either way, there wasn't enough time for them to seriously hurt him.

Once more, McCullum saw right through his false guise: he saw a monster and his eyes _burned_ with hatred and disgust. Jonathan almost smiled, continuing to play. During the fight he played, too, allowing the hunter to wound him, taunting and frankly _daring_ to kill him. Perhaps, three nights ago Jonathan really would've let this fanatic cut his head off: oh, he would've damned everything and every _one_ and would've placed his neck under the sword himself. Today it all became only a game, and even with the help of King's blood McCullum didn't have a slightest chance of winning.

His _own_ blood turned out to be unexpectedly sweet and gorgeously _alive_ : it slid down Jonathan's throat like a fire, and he couldn't stop a moan of pleasure from slipping. He let the hunter push him away, only flashing his teeth irritatedly when a stake hit him in the shoulder.

At the beginning, Jonathan planned on drinking McCullum dry and going for Edgar after that, but when he finally had the hunter in his grasp, a sudden, _wonderful_ idea popped up in his head. Jonathan implemented it with _pleasure_ , taking a great joy from hearing McCullum scream desperately and seeing his pathetic attempts to break free and spit the blood out. It might be that to the end of his un-life Jonathan would regularly revisit the memory of this meeting of theirs. The void inside shuddered in hunger, and Jonathan readily succumbed to this desire, taking Dr Strickland to the nearest closet. Truly, Thoreau simply happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but Jonathan liked his ardeur and desire to please his idol any way he possibly could.

Already he'd been waiting for a long time for a chance to drink Edgar, and here he was, all ready and beaten--compliments of Priwen (Jonathan could almost see the bow around the man). Who… Well. If he were completely honest, Jonathan was decidedly _not_ surprised to learn what exactly Edgar had done: he'd been suspecting something like that for some time. Edgar's blood tasted even sweeter than that of miss Crane, yet not as fulfilling as McCullum's. And it was a pity Edgar died there: if he were in a condition even a tiny bit better, Jonathan would've took him back to Pembroke and gave to his Childe as the first victim. Oh, Jonathan sincerely grieved he didn't make it in time to see McCullum wake up; somehow, he was quite sure he would've loved to watch a newborn Ekon make his first steps. _And_ to see the moment he remembered what had been done to him, what he would try to do with the knowledge.

The Disaster problem became a real nuisance, just like the never ending hordes of crazy Skals on the streets were one; they made hunting irritating. Somewhere around this time Jonathan stopped anguishing about the fact he no longer considered himself a doctor. He was a monster from the very moment his fangs bit into his beloved sister for the first time, and it was long overdue he accepted his new nature, stopped lying and masquerading. He was a damned vampire. Hunger, night and void were his companions now. Even Lord Redgrave didn't risk attacking him and obediently shared Marshall's blood; when Jonathan, bidding him farewell, allowed himself a gloating smile, something flashed in the whitish eyes of the old Ekon. Something suspiciously like fear.

Priwen patrols roamed the streets less frequently; however, foreign Ekons replaced them in the task of getting on Jonathan's nerves, and so he tore them to little pieces with _even more_ pleasure, while methodically going from street to street in a search of his Childe. Whom he'd found literally in the same part of the Stonebridge cemetery where not long ago Jonathan's heart and soul had irrevocably died. He only tsked, irritated at this coincidence, and watched McCullum fight several Skals. It was a pleasant sight, his Childe's strength. Jonathan even felt something akin to pride when he met the hunter's eyes and saw them angry and _alive_. The fire inside McCullum hadn't withered away, but burned even hotter instead.

Again, McCullum had seen through all his lies, only this time he wasn't smart enough to dig under the third layer- or, perhaps, their shared blood has been influencing their relationship stronger than Jonathan had anticipated. After all, it was the first time he'd created a Childe and _meant_ it, he didn't know what to expect. Oh, he was already looking forward to the nights full of the risk and the hunting; blood and sex were all well and good, but lately the only time he felt alive was with death looming above his head. And now Jonathan knew where to find it.

He had fallen so low he found himself at the very top. An eternity under the moon wasn't scary anymore, especially when with such a loyal enemy it, quite possibly, could be not an eternity, but a handful of decades or centuries.


End file.
